


Agent for Hire

by pennyofthewild



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: (well not really), Action/Adventure, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Attempt at Humor, Background Character Death, Ensemble Cast, Future Fic, Gen, No pairings - Freeform, Run-On Sentences, Warnings for Non-Graphic Depiction of Violence, brief strong language, genfic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>(or, Four Times Kise Ryouta Saved a Life and One Time He Didn't)</b><br/>[Ryouta ducks behind the burning wreck of a Toyota. When he comes up, he is wearing a uniform, the patch on his shoulder declaring him to be Sergeant Kise Ryouta. He joins the policemen encouraging pedestrians to <i>remain calm</i> and <i>form orderly lines, please</i>, watching the SAT operatives take position around Murasakibara, assault rifles at the ready.]</p><p>Five-part novella exploring Kise's relationships with his <i>nakama</i> in an alternate universe setting. Written for IHX2014. </p><p>I: Heaven Is A Sugar Rush<br/>II: Not So Undercover<br/>III: Dead Men Tell No Tales<br/>IV: Man Proposes, God Disposes<br/>V: All In A Day's Work</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heaven Is A Sugar Rush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [decisivepumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/decisivepumpkin/gifts).



> Dear Decisive Pumpkin,
> 
>  ~~(please don't be scared by how long this is)~~  
>  Thank you for the lovely prompt! I hope you don't mind the direction I took this in; as with most of my screw-ups this story sort of ran away with itself. 
> 
> This is basically a pastiche of one of my favorite children's book series growing up ( _Alex Rider_ by Anthony Horowitz), and if you're familiar with it I'm sure you'll see how deeply this has been influenced by his work. (no, but seriously: cliches abound. Here you will find poorly-written gunfights, lots of explosions, lots of falling down and swearing and maybe even some fancy equipment - )
> 
> Before we get to the actual fic, I'd like to say thank you **so very much** to the ever-lovely [masi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/masi/works), who is a much better writer than I can ever hope to be, for beta-ing this monstrosity on a very short notice. Everything good about this fic is because of her; all remaining mistakes are mine. Many thank-yous to my baby sisters, also, without whose encouragement this fic would've remained unfinished, probably.
> 
> I've divided this up into chapters for ease of reading, but rest assured that this is the entirety of the fic. I may end up dabbling in this AU again, at some point (confession: there was supposed to be an epilogue), but for now, this is it. Despite this story's numerous flaws, I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. I hope you will enjoy reading it just as much.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [The first of the SAT teams arrives approximately five seconds later, the whir of helicopter blades announcing their presence. There is an officer with a megaphone calling for evacuation and several more on foot, attempting to herd pedestrians away.]
> 
> In which Tokyo throws Kise a welcome party. Spoiler: there is no cake.

**Agent for Hire**

**(Five Times Kise Ryouta Saved a Life and One Time He Didn't)**

 

**Part I: Heaven Is A Sugar Rush**

Kise Ryouta returns to Tokyo one rainy morning in early April with a duffel bag over one shoulder and a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, home after a three-month long military training program.

Not that Ryouta is a military man. At first glance, he might appear to be one; he has the bearing and posture of a soldier – a certain wary watchfulness, an air of being prepared for any eventuality, be it a runaway pet dog or the impending assassination of the governor of Tokyo –

In fact, however, Ryouta isn’t a soldier or a spy. In his free time, he enjoys the thrill of extreme sports – snowboarding, windsurfing, BASE jumping. When he isn’t trying his best to break his neck, Ryouta hangs out in Sugar Rush Café, a bizarre little bakery-café in Ebisu, where the owner tolerates him out of a sense of loyalty to their more than ten-year-long association. More often, however, Ryouta is at work.

Work is varied and highly unpredictable. At any given day of the week, Ryouta can be at his seldomly-used, greatly-cluttered desk, filing paperwork, playing bodyguard to his exacting employer, attending a training exercise in another country, or evading death the way middle-schoolers avoid PE classes. Ryouta’s kind of life, really, apart from the paperwork.

At some point in life, Ryouta was going to become a fashion model. He was one, briefly, during eighth and ninth grades, under the questionable guidance of his older sister, and, at the time, enjoyed it enough to think, vaguely, of pursuing it in the future, maybe even walking a runway at one of those high-profile international events.

But then he met Akashi Seijuurou, son of the Akashi Conglomerate, a man (boy, then) best described – for lack of a better phrase – as a modern pied piper: rich, magnetic, and with a fascinating tendency towards criminal activity, which, like his inevitable position as head of family, he inherited from his father. Leadership qualities aside – charisma is not an exclusive attribute – Akashi also offered Ryouta what Ryouta refers to in his (many) dramatic moments as _a way out_ or _an opportunity to discover people like himself_.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Now, Ryouta gets off the train at Shibuya Station and joins the throng of pedestrians at the crossing, pulling his jacket hood over his head, tucking his hands into his pockets. He breathes in the smell – quintessentially Tokyo: the faint brine of the sea, car exhaust, the tang of incense, a passing woman’s perfume, cigarette smoke. He turns onto the crosswalk, aimlessly, letting the crowd carry him along. He thinks about going home, remembers the mess he’d left his living room in, and decides to stay out and shirk responsibility for as long as possible, like the mature, conscientious adult he is.

Maybe, Ryouta thinks, glancing at his wristwatch, he’ll go see Murasakibara. It is nine o’clock; the café should be open. Maybe Satsuki will be there, and have word from Akashi.

As if the universe is in tune with his thoughts, Ryouta catches sight of a (n abnormally) tall figure on the other side of the road. Even across four lanes of traffic, Murasakibara’s purple hair is unmistakable. Ryouta is about to call out to him, but then thinks better of it, pulling out his phone to maybe send a text message instead. He leans against a telephone pole, thumbing through his contacts list, keeping an eye on Murasakibara’s languorous progress through the crowd of pedestrians, a stack of pastry boxes covered in plastic in hand. Passersby give him a wide berth, steering clear of the invisible no-entry zone that surrounds him.

Ryouta, halfway through typing out his message – inserting emojis takes time! – almost misses the moment a heavy-set salary man carrying a briefcase – he is obviously in a hurry – collides, forcefully, with Murasakibara’s back, sending the boxes in Murasakibara’s arms flying.

Oh, no, Ryouta thinks, watching Murasakibara turn, slowly, to look down at the cause of the accident. The sounds of the street – the car engines, the conversations – fade into background noise as Murasakibara towers over the offender. The man backs away, likely muttering apologies, which go unheard, because – and Ryouta knows this through years of hanging out with Murasakibara –the (unlucky) salary man has committed the most dreadful mistake known to mankind, at least, as far as Murasakibara is concerned.

He’s wasted food.

Standing in place, tall and dreadful, Murasakibara seems to _grow_ , the curve of his spine pronouncing, the fabric of his chef’s coat splitting across his expanding back, giant hands clenching into fists.

Unfortunately for the salary-man, it isn’t a fancy party trick.

Shit, Ryouta thinks, shit – there’s no way to cross the road; not until the next red light. Ryouta turns, scanning the crowd around him, looking for – there! A passing tout, advertising a ramen stand –

“Excuse me,” Ryouta tells him with his most charming smile, reaching for the boy’s megaphone, “if I could just borrow that – ”

He manages to wrest it away from the tout a moment before the screaming starts. Ryouta winces, raising the megaphone and deepening his tenor into a lyrical baritone.

“Atsushi,” he calls in his best impression of Akashi – which, because this is Ryouta – is the perfect impression of Akashi, “you need to calm down, _right now_ – ”

The announcement comes too late. Murasakibara is too far gone to care about calming down; he is now wrapping a hand around the man’s middle, lifting him up into the air. This guy ruined his pastries, damn it, and _he_ needs to pay up – preferably through an extended hospital stay.

Ryouta shoves the megaphone in the general direction of the ramen boy and, throwing caution to the wind, darts across the four lanes between him and the other side of the road, dodging cars, taxis, the occasional tour bus.

Law enforcement chooses that moment to arrive, three policemen approaching Murasakibara from all sides, guns drawn. Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on point of view – the first bullet bounces off Murasakibara’s transformation-enhanced skin. The officer responsible is not so lucky; Murasakibara backhands him into the nearest building, sending him crashing through the glass. The street is in chaos; a pedestrian runs in front of a car – the driver, swerving to avoid collision, makes a sharp turn and rams into the taxi in the next lane with a horrifying crunch – car horns blast, adding to the general discord –

Murasakibara, who has never been a fan of very loud sounds, claps a hand over his ear, a look of annoyance crinkling his forehead. He lets go of the salary-man, which would have been a wonderful development if the poor man didn’t have seven meters to fall before hitting the pavement, and turns his attention towards the road and more pressing matters.

Ryouta, looking between the police officer speaking rapidly into his communication device and the luckless cab driver currently at the receiving end of Murasakibara’s rage, pulls out his cellphone, hitting the second number on his speed dial.

His call is picked up on the second ring.

“Ryou,” the person on the other end growls, “the fuck’s happening in Shibuya? I _knew_ you had something to do with it – ”

“Listen,” Ryouta cuts him off, “I need you to come down here – ”

“SAT’s already on their way – ”

“No,” Ryouta insists, “ _you_ need to come; Murasakibara’s on a riot – ”

He hears a clatter as something – presumably a chair – falls to the ground.

“Ryou, you fucker, should’ve said so _earlier_ – ”

“I tried, but you wouldn’t _let me_!”

The first of the SAT teams arrives approximately five seconds later, the whir of helicopter blades announcing their presence. There is an officer with a megaphone calling for evacuation and several more on foot, attempting to herd pedestrians away.

Ryouta ducks behind the burning wreck of a Toyota. When he comes up, he is wearing a uniform, the patch on his shoulder declaring him to be Sergeant Kise Ryouta. He joins the policemen encouraging pedestrians to _remain calm_ and _form orderly lines, please_ , watching the SAT operatives take position around Murasakibara, assault rifles at the ready. The officer with the megaphone is still yelling, now at Murasakibara, warning him of the repercussions of his misdeeds.

 _Not gonna do you any good_ , Ryouta wants to shout, heart in his throat, but there’s really no point. All he can do is sit tight and hope the Inspector gets here before things _really_ go to hell.

As if on cue, the second SAT team arrives, sirens blaring. The lead van screeches to a halt several paces away from where Ryouta is standing. The passenger door opens to admit a tall, dark-skinned man with hair the color of his uniform. He hasn’t bothered with the riot helmet, or the riot gear. In fact, his uniform shirt is short-sleeved – even though temperatures are still below fifteen degrees Celsius – exposing the thick, dark, hair curling over his arms, denser than that of most Japanese men. Ryouta doesn’t miss the Sig Sauer P226 he’s got strapped to his hip, though.

Ryouta sighs. Aomine and his posturing.

Seeing him, Aomine beckons Ryouta to come forward, as the rest of his team scatters, taking up their positions.

“You, over there,” Aomine calls, “Sergeant.”

Ryouta approaches, snapping him a salute. “Nice to see you made it, Inspector,” he says, eyes sparkling.

“Yeah, whatever, you look far too happy in that getup,” Aomine tells him, and nods at the figure crouched behind the remains of the ramen advertisement. “Go get me that megaphone, will you?”

Ryouta gives him a scowl as he crosses the now-contained street, crouching in front of the ramen-boy. “Hey,” Ryouta says, “how about I pay you for that?”

Across the street, he can hear Aomine directing his men into a corral, and _put those weapons away damn you_. The boy’s eyes are very brown and very scared, and not much older than thirteen or fourteen. This is probably a part-time job for him.

“I’m Kise Ryouta,” Ryouta tells him, pointing at his badge, “it’s nice to meet you,” though, under the circumstances, it really isn’t. He holds out a hand.

“Sakurai Ryou,” Sakurai replies, accepting the handshake. It is a good handshake. “You’re not really a police officer, are you?” He looks taken aback, following this statement, as if he can’t quite believe he’d said it. “I mean – I’m sorry – ”

Ryouta laughs. “Don’t be; you’re right; I’m not a police officer. I can, however, pay you for the megaphone.” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, rifling through the bills. There isn’t much in it, but Ryouta manages to find almost two thousand yen. “Will this do?”

Sakurai accepts it, hesitantly, “it’s too much.”

Ryouta shrugs, picking up the megaphone. “Keep it,” he says. “Thanks. Oh, and it might be a good idea to scram, kid.”

He walks back over to Aomine.

“What were you doing over there, making friends?” Aomine gives him a raised eyebrow. “How is it that, when I give you an order, you suddenly develop scruples?”

“You can’t give me orders, Aominecchi,” Ryouta reminds him, “in our organization, we’ve got equal ranks.” Well, apart from Akashi, but Akashi is another case altogether.

“Shut it, Ryou, I outrank you _right now_ ,” and Aomine prods Ryouta’s _sergeant_ badge in reminder, raising the megaphone. Ryouta scowls, and the moment his back is turned, morphs his badge into an Inspector’s. He can always change it back if someone looks too closely.

“Alright,” Aomine is saying, voice amplified, “I want everybody to _stand down_. You are not to fire. Not a single bullet, alright? Our objective is containment. Casualties to a minimum, please.”

The way he tacks on the please, it almost sounds like an insult.

Someone has gotten in touch with the helicopter pilot; it is now hovering directly over Mursakibara, just out of reach, drawing his attention the way a light attracts moths. Ryouta can hear the frustration in the rumble of his voice as he attempts to bat the helicopter away.

Aomine holds up a capped syringe, the kind used to give vaccination shots. “I’m going to have them drop the net,” Aomine explains, “the men are going to secure it, pin him down. You’re going to give him this. Try for his deltoid or thigh, okay? And make sure you hold it perpendicular – ”

Ryouta snatches the syringe out of his hand. “I know how to give an intramuscular injection, Aominecchi.”

Aomine raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t say anything about it being an intramuscular injection,” he says.

Ryouta narrows his eyes at him. “Why don’t you just do it yourself, then, huh?”

Aomine says, “Rule number one in the armed forces: ask no questions.”

“Yeah,” Ryouta says, “that explains why _so many_ people in the armed forces go through with stupid orders,” and he moves out of reach before Aomine can do something drastic, like take the syringe back.

Still scowling at Ryouta’s insolence, Aomine radios up to the helicopter. Ryouta watches the net fall: a cross-linked mesh of what looks like interlinked metal filaments. It envelops Murasakibara in seconds, and, the SAT men, on standby, anchor it down – with body weight, holding him down in spite of his panicked struggling. There are enough of them to keep him trapped for several minutes, but probably not longer than that. Ryouta doesn’t think Murasakibara bothers with things like limits and boundaries. Ryouta hesitates, suddenly unsure.

“He’s down, sir!” one of the SAT officers calls.

Murasakibara roars. The hair on the back of Ryouta’s neck stands up.

“Ryou,” Aomine hisses, “what are you waiting for? _Go_ , dammit,” and he pushes firmly against Ryouta’s back with the heel of his hand.

Ryouta almost stumbles. Silently hoping Aomine makes the water temperature too hot the next time he is in the shower, he makes his way over to the net Aomine’s men are straining to keep on the ground, where Murasakibara is more or less on his side – but he is moving so much it is difficult to tell.

It shouldn’t be hard to stick a needle into a gluteus medius as wide as Ryouta’s forearm – in theory. In practice, things are a little more tricky, and after three failed attempts Ryouta wants to inject Aomine with the serum instead. He is about to tell Aomine to just stick Murasakibara himself when Aomine calls,

“Stand back, sergeant,” which is Ryouta’s only warning before a hypodermic dart buries itself in Murasakibara’s bicep. He falters, slows, and stills with a loud thump as his head hits the floor, hair obscuring his face.

Ryouta looks over his shoulder and finds Aomine with the dart gun, Satsuki standing by him dressed in a labcoat over black slacks. She catches Ryouta’s eye and her mouth twitches. Ryouta, exceeding his capacity to care, gives Aomine the finger. Then he pushes the syringe into the side of Murasakibara’s thigh.

For a moment, nothing happens, apart from the theatrical scramble of a scrap of newspaper across the road. Then Murasakibara’s hand twitches, and he begins to shrink, as dramatically as he’d enlarged. His fingernails retract, and his skin returns to its original sun-kissed color. Within moments, he is back to his usual self, albeit knocked out on the ground in the middle of Shibuya.

Ryouta heaves a breath. He turns around and walks back to Aomine and Satsuki, the empty syringe in hand.

“Here, Ryou-chan,” Satsuki holds out a yellow plastic container. “Put that in here; you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“The hell I don’t,” Ryouta snaps, “what was that stunt with the dart, Aominecchi? You could’ve done that earlier!”

Aomine rubs the bridge of his nose. “No, I couldn’t have,” he says, “Satsuki just brought it along. There was nothing I had at the station that was strong enough to knock someone as big as him out without requiring buckets of the stuff.” He gives Ryouta an apologetic smile. Ryouta doesn’t have the energy to stay upset.

“Right,” he begins to say, and then bristles, recalling the metal net, which looked like it had been custom-designed to contain Murasakibara, “or wait, hang _on_. That net – and the serum: you’re going to tell me you had those and not – ”

Aomine pulls a face. “Yeah: I guess you can say we were inadequately prepared,” and Satsuki laughs.

“Same old, same old,” she says, “we fuck up and Ryouta swoops in to save the world, isn’t that how it is?”

His cheeks might be a little warmer than usual, Ryouta thinks, as he thanks her; Satsuki’s eyes sparkle knowingly.

“By the way, Ryou-chan – there’s a phone call for you.” She offers him her cellphone; puzzled, Ryouta takes it.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Ryouta,” the voice at the other end of the line is a cool, pleasant, musical baritone. Akashi. “Did you perhaps feel Tokyo grew too quiet in your absence?”

“Akashicchi,” Ryouta says, and quells the urge to fidget with his collar. Akashi can’t see him. “Sorry?”

Akashi laughs. “If you’re apologizing for damages to property, that’s as much Atsushi’s fault as any of yours. I understand there hasn’t been any loss of life, though the poor man who had the misfortune of crashing into Atsushi will, I believe, require extensive hospitalization.” There is a slight pause. “Other than that: you’re right; things were getting a little dry. Thank you for spicing them up, Ryouta. I do believe your escapade might just make the cover story on the evening news.”

Ryouta, at a loss for words, remains silent.

“Oh, and by the way,” Akashi says – obviously, he hadn’t been expecting Ryouta to answer, “tell Daiki I’m expecting his report, will you? Welcome home, Ryouta.”

The call ends with a click. Wordlessly, Ryouta hands the phone back to Satsuki, who slips it into her labcoat pocket.

“Well, what did he say?” Aomine says, voice gruff.

“He said thank you, and that he’s expecting your report,” Ryouta replies, still a little dazed.

“Oh, shit,” Aomine mutters, and runs a hand over his face.

“Excuse us, sir,” an officer says, “what do you want us to do with him?” He gestures at Murasakibara, draped over two other men’s shoulders, sound asleep.

Aomine breathes out, suddenly businesslike. “Put him in the back of the truck,” he says, “gently, alright?”

The officer salutes and goes to oversee the gentle putting of Murasakibara in the truck.

“Right,” Aomine says, “I’ve got to get back to the station. Ryou, Satsuki, thanks for your help.”

“Anytime, Dai-chan,” Satsuki says, brightly. She turns to Ryouta, jabbing her thumb at the silver Toyota Prius parked just outside the yellow tape cordoning off the area. “Hey, Ryou-chan, want a ride?”

Ryouta nods, thoroughly exhausted. All he wants to do now, he decides, is go to sleep. His living room can wait.

***

He wakes up several hours later, having fallen asleep on the couch while drying his hair off post-shower. The news channel is running; he’d turned the television on at some point after coming home, and there is a lot of screaming emanating from the TV’s speakers. Unsticking his gummy eyelids, Ryouta makes out the headline: Incident At Shibuya Crossing, and underneath it, a tall purple-haired figure struggling with a net. There is a blond policeman hovering over it, attempting to do something the camera is too far away to see.

Ryouta sighs. Akashi – as usual – had been right.

They _had_ made the evening news.

***

_end part one._


	2. Not So Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [He is dressed in an immaculate gray suit and has his hands behind his back, a look of utter boredom on his face, the picture of casual dominance. Ryouta recognizes him from the various files Satsuki keeps on Akashi’s opposition: Genjirou Masahiko, one of the leaders of Tokyo’s Golden Dragons, which, unfortunately for Ryouta, is not the name of a sports team.]
> 
> In which Kise and Momoi orchestrate a rescue mission.

 

**Part II: Not So Undercover**

 

The distress signal wakes Ryouta up.

***

In many ways, Tokyo is an open-24-hours-7-days-a-week kind of city – but some areas are special. Even at three o clock in the morning, Roppongi is unlike any other neighborhood in Tokyo – except perhaps Kabukochi. The area is quieter, granted, than it would have been a couple of hours earlier, but neon signs still blaze over most storefronts, the hum of a hundred different genres of music spilling onto the street from the open-all-night hostess clubs, bars and nightclubs lining both sides of the street.

Ryouta stifles a yawn as he pulls up outside a silver-and-glass high-rise building. It is a narrow building, sandwiched between a (closed for the night) restaurant on one side and a love hotel on the other, a little out of place among the more colorful establishments around it.

During the daytime, it is a bank, one of the many owned and run by Tokyo’s various gangs. Now, however, there is a light burning in an upper-level window, and a guard posted at the door, backlit in the soft gold lighting from the reception area inside.

“Momocchi,” Ryouta says, adjusting his earpiece, “I’m here.”

“Hold on a moment,” Ryouta hears Satsuki tapping away at her keyboard. “Okay, I’ve got you. Guards?”

“One at ground level,” Ryouta says, as he gets out of the car, “by the door. Nobody else I can see, yet.”

“Right, be careful,” Satsuki says into his ear. Ryouta grins, though she can’t see him.

“Ah, don’t worry about me, Momocchi,” he says, “I’m always careful.” He heaves a breath, and shifts. In the car window, he can see a twelve-thirteen year-old boy with inconspicuous black eyes and dark hair. Ryouta pulls a face, and the boy pulls one, too.

The guard at the door looks to be in his late teens, is bald, and tattooed to within an inch of his life. He is wearing a sleeveless black muscle shirt – probably to show off the extent of his tattoos – and has a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. He leans against the side of the building, engrossed in playing some sort of game on his phone.

Ryouta sighs. Gangsters and their aesthetics. 

There is a camera mounted over the door. Periodically, it swivels 180°: first to the right, and then the left.

The guard looks up. “What are you doing here, kid?” His voice is a nasal rasp. “You’re off limits.” He puts his phone away, and frowns, narrowing his eyes, probably to look intimidating. The intimidation technique fails, mainly because he’d been playing Cake Factory.

Ryouta says, “I’m looking for my dad,” shakily. He widens his eyes, to display barely restrained tears to full effect.

“Yeah, well, you’re in the wrong place,” the thug says, looking a little uncomfortable. “This is a dangerous place, kid, so go on home if you know what’s good for you.” Overhead, the camera turns, facing up the street.

Ryouta sniffs theatrically, runs the back of his hand across his nose. Then he knees the guard in the stomach, hard.

“Dangerous is an understatement,” Ryouta murmurs, as he binds and gags him. He moves quickly, pulling the thug over to the side, where he won’t be visible from the street. Someone will find him, eventually: hopefully after Ryouta is gone. He pockets the guard’s handgun and matches.

The guard dealt with, Ryouta pauses outside the building’s door, briefly closing his eyes. When he opens them again, he pushes the door open with a tattooed hand, quickly glancing at his reflection in the glass. The guard’s face looks back at him, a _perfect copy_ , down to the mole on the guard’s chin. Ryouta glances at the dragon’s tail curling around his bicep and rubs, ruefully, at his now bald head. He swings the door open.

“I’m inside,” he says.

“The control room is down the hall to your left,” Satsuki tells him. “Once you’ve dealt with that, go up to the fifth floor. Look for the conference room.”

Ryouta squares his shoulders. His sneakers tap against the tiled floor. The control room is behind a white, nondescript door, conveniently labelled with a black-and-white plaque that reads CONTROL ROOM in English letters, all caps. Ryouta turns the handle.

There is a squat, middle-aged man sitting in front of a wall covered in flat screens. He, too, is smoking, and frowns when Ryouta walks in. His nametag says, _Hello, I’m Fukuyama_.

“Kenji-kun,” he says, “what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the door.”

“Ah, there’s a guy wanting to get in,” Ryouta begins.

The security man’s frown deepens. “There’s nobody out there,” he says, and gestures at the screen. “Are you talking about the kid? He’s gone,” and he half-turns towards the screen, as if to make sure – and that is when Ryouta moves, shifting his center of gravity and bringing up his knee. He kicks out, rotating his hip and snapping his leg out, putting his weight behind the kick, the instep of his foot connecting with his opponent’s neck just under the ear.

For a moment, Fukuyama stands in place – and then he crumples, slowly, as if folding in on himself. Ryouta lowers him, slowly, to the ground. There’s no point in doing extra damage, he thinks.

After cuffing and gagging the security man, Ryouta sits down in front of the array of screens, panning through the various cameras till he comes to the one in the fifth floor conference room. The camera seems to be set high in the back wall of the room, looking over it. The room itself is very typical for a conference room: polished oval table, with chairs, projector screen, whiteboard – apart from the dark-skinned man tied to one of the chairs, and the menacing aura emanating off the twelve other men surrounding him.

“There’re too many of them for me to handle on my own,” Ryouta tells Satsuki. “I’m going to need a diversion.”

He can hear the smile in Satsuki’s voice when she replies. “Anything I can help you with?”

The firecrackers have been sitting in the trunk of Ryouta’s car since last Obon. They’re the sort that come on a string and are supposed to burn one after the other, with a slow burning fuse. Ryouta douses the string in gasoline, leaving the first several inches of the fuse dry.

He takes the elevator to the fifth floor, his sneakered feet sinking into the carpet.

“Ryou-chan,” Satsuki sighs her disapproval, when Ryouta mentions the carpet.

“Mm?” Ryouta says noncommittally, walking down the hall, away from the conference room. He rounds the corner. He tucks the end of the string into the extra gas tank he always keeps – also in the trunk of his car.

“Ryou-chan,” Satsuki repeats, “really?”

“The building’s got a sprinkler system,” Ryouta tells her, unapologetic, as he touches a lit match to the end of the fuse. The flame hisses and takes hold, licking slowly along its length.

Ryouta stands and moves back down the hall. He stands by the door, on the side towards the elevators, away from the firecrackers, and waits.

It isn’t the largest explosion Ryouta’s ever set off. The walls barely shake with it – but it is loud, and that is what matters. Barely a moment elapses before the door is pushed open and one of the gangsters inside the room bursts through it. He doesn’t notice Ryouta, attention focused down the hall, where the sound had come from. Ryouta smashes the blunt end of his handgun down onto the man’s head.  The next two gangsters receive the same treatment: then they stop coming.

Ryouta sighs. Three down, nine to go. It’s sort of disappointing. Across the hallway, he can see the red-orange flicker playing over the far wall, indicating the carpet has probably, as Satsuki predicted, caught fire. He wonders how long it will take for the sprinkler system to kick in – or if it even works.

Alright, Ryouta thinks, time to finish things up. “Momocchi,” he tells her, “I’m going in. Wish me luck?”

He doesn’t wait for her reply, rapping his knuckles against the door and pushing it open. Ryouta steps into the room.

One of the nine men – apart from the captive – is standing, straight-backed, by the whiteboard. He is dressed in an immaculate gray suit and has his hands behind his back, a look of utter boredom on his face, the picture of casual dominance. Ryouta recognizes him from the various files Satsuki keeps on Akashi’s opposition: Genjirou Masahiko, one of the leaders of Tokyo’s Golden Dragons, which, unfortunately for Ryouta, is not the name of a sports team.

Ryouta bows deferentially as he approaches, coming, nonchalantly, to a stop by the captive’s chair.

“Kenji,” Genjirou says, disapprovingly. “What exactly is going on? Where are the others?”

Ryouta puts on an expression of puzzlement. “Which others, sir?” It probably isn’t the smartest move – the yakuza is already on edge, Ryouta can tell, but: make a man angry, and he will get careless. Careless men make mistakes, leaving Ryouta free to do things like pass a pocket switchblade to the captive, unnoticed.

Pressing his nose between his forefinger and thumb, Genjirou sighs. “Oh, yes,” he says, “you are supposed to be outside, at the door,” he fixes Ryouta with a piercing look. “May I ask, what exactly are you doing here?”

 “About that, sir,” Ryouta begins, “I heard an explosion and came up to see if everything was okay.” He hits himself, mentally – but being witty isn’t the point here. He just needs to keep Genjirou talking.

Behind him, Ryouta can hear the low _rasp-rasp_ of the switchblade against the rope securing the captive’s wrist, and hopes nobody else can hear it.

Genjirou throws him an exasperated look. It is so reminiscent of Akashi Ryouta wonders if there is a gangster finishing school, that teaches future heads of family how to look uniformly condescending.

 “If that’s why you’re here,” Genjirou says, as if he doesn’t quite believe Ryouta, “than you must visit an ENT specialist, because I doubt your ability to localize sound. The explosion came from further down the hall –”

As if to punctuate his statement, a loud blast erupts from down the hall. _This_ time, the walls shake with the force of it. Heavens, Ryouta thinks, what happened?

With a quiet thump, the rope falls to the floor.

“What on earth,” Genjirou mutters, and nods at one of the men. “Himura, deal with it.”  

As Himura passes the chair on his way to the door, Aomine stands up, in a single, sinuous motion, sending his chair clattering to the floor. “Took you long enough, Ryou, you asshole,” he snarls, ripping the gag from his mouth. His fingernails are already elongating, canines growing sharper. Somewhere in the building, a smoke alarm goes off, belatedly. “Were you gonna wait till they shot me?” He stretches, cracking his neck, and bares his teeth at Himura, frozen in place. “Yeah, what’re you looking at?” Before the petrified gangster can react, he lashes out, raking five parallel lines across his stomach.

Ryouta thinks, ouch, grimacing, and sighing, pulls his gun from its holster. He tosses the one he’d taken from Kenji the guard to Aomine. “Blew my cover, Aominecchi,” he says, “you’re such a lousy police officer,” and resignedly, phases back. A tumble of blond hair cascades over his forehead. Ryouta blows it, impatiently, out of his face. Maybe there is some merit in going bald, after all. Maybe he’ll cut his hair short after this is over.

Overhead, the sprinkler system finally kicks in, water pouring from the ceiling, plastering Ryouta’s hair to his forehead and soaking through his clothes.

“What are you doing?” Genjirou’s voice is strangely pitchy, composure cracking. “ _Shoot_ them!” Water runs in rivulets down his face. Suddenly, he doesn’t look quite so put-together any more. One of his men makes a move forward, scrabbling for his gun. Aomine puts a bullet into his shooting arm. If his arm is stiff from being restrained, it doesn’t show.

“Come on, assholes,” he shouts, “come on: give it all you’ve got!”

“Where’s the flash drive?” Ryouta asks him, repeating _lousy officer_ in his head.

Aomine tilts his head at Genjirou. “Jacket pocket,” he says, “right jacket pocket.” He fires again. This bullet catches his victim in the chest, the first casualty of the night.

“Aominecchi,” says Ryouta, disapprovingly.

Aomine rolls his eyes. “I’m not the one who set the building on fire,” he says. The next bullet is a warning shot: an _I shoot to kill_ , _not wound_.

He turns to Genjirou, who backs away, reaching into his jacket pocket. “You can hand that over,” Aomine says, “or I can shoot you and take it.”

The yakuza head sets his jaw. “Akashi Seijuurou,” he says, “that’s who you work for, isn’t it?”

Aomine says nothing, training his gun onto the yakuza boss’s face.

Ryouta says, “does it matter?” One of the men makes a break for the door; as he pushes it open, Ryouta sees the thick clouds of smoke in the corridor. He coughs, his eyes beginning to water.

“Even if I give this to you,” Genjirou says, “you can make nothing of it,” and he pulls his hand out of his jacket. Ryouta sees the grenade almost too late.

“Aominecchi, get out of the way,” he shouts.

The hand grenade explodes in a flare of sound and light. Ryouta blinks, momentarily blinded. Through the blurry film over his eyes, he sees Genjirou moving towards the door. Ryouta blinks, hard, and takes aim.

Without Satsuki to direct them to the nearest fire escape, Ryouta isn’t sure they would have made it out. The fifth floor windows shatter as Ryouta pulls Aomine out onto the street, smoke billowing through the cracked glass. Aomine is breathing heavily, grasping his side, but the flash drive is safe in Ryouta’s pocket, and Aomine is alive.

As Ryouta makes his way over to the car, staggering under Aomine’s weight, a fire truck arrives on the street, sirens wailing. Ryouta unlocks his car, depositing Aomine in the passenger seat.

“You’re gonna get blood on my seats, Aominecchi, huh,” he says, letting himself in from the other side. “You owe me one.”

“Shut up, Ryou, asshole,” Aomine says in a nasty rasp, “I’m dying,” and he does a very good imitation of it, head lolling against the backrest, blood caking the side of his shirt.

“No you’re not,” Ryouta says, turning onto the road, “I’m going to take you to the hospital, and Midorimacchi’s gonna patch you up, make you good as new.”

It hurts to talk. Ryouta’s throat feels like it is made out of sandpaper. It isn’t a novel feeling, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

He calls Midorima ahead of getting to the hospital, so that, when he parks outside of the ER, Midorima is already there, waiting. He is dressed in rumpled green scrubs, so he looks like a shrub – an irritated shrub that just got out of bed. There is thinly-masked concern, however, behind the belligerence.

“Midorimacchi,” Ryouta sighs, “thank God: I could kiss you – ”

“I should just let you die,” Midorima says by way of reply, all concern vanishing.

***

Akashi regards Ryouta over his desk. He is wearing black-framed glasses, mostly because they make him look distinguished and not for any medical reason. His desk is pure mahogany, handmade, and very uncluttered, with only a (black) laptop and a file on the surface.

Sometimes, when he is in a less charitable mood, Ryouta thinks Akashi doesn’t do any work at all: he probably just plays computer games while everyone else does his job for him.

Satsuki is standing by the desk, leaning against it. Today, she’s got her hair up in a bun, Swarovski pearls around her neck. Satsuki’s fashion sense has improved greatly since she began asking Ryouta for advice. She hasn’t let go of her sneakers, though. In her opinion, heels are torture devices intended to limit mobility, and that is an option unavailable to her.

“Faulty electrical wiring,” Akashi steeples his fingers. “You’re lucky the whole building did not burn down,” he continues, “or, I should say, I’m lucky, because otherwise I might have had to do something about it.”

Akashi is one of those people who were probably born middle-aged. Middle-aged and cranky and with an inflated sense of superiority, which, in Akashi’s case, is supplemented by the sort of charisma that would make the devil want to work for him. For free.

“Congratulations, by the way, on getting Daiki out alive, despite all his efforts otherwise,” Akashi offers Ryouta a rare smile. The gesture warms Ryouta, the way a cup of hot chocolate might. “Though I suppose it would be beneficial to my health if he weren’t around to give me so much heartache.”

There, Ryouta smiles inwardly. Fifty, and aging.

“I didn’t know you had a heart,” he says lightly, “for it to hurt so much.”

Satsuki stifles a laugh, eyes dancing over the hand she is using to cover her mouth.

“Hilarious, Ryouta,” Akashi murmurs, lifting the lid off his laptop, “maybe I should arrange for you to become a comedian. Well, go on, then; away with you.”

Ryouta dips his head. Satsuki follows him to the door.

“Thanks for taking care of Dai-chan, Ryou-chan,” she says, brightly.

Ryouta grins down at her. “Not at all,” he says, and, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Ah, sure you could’ve,” Satsuki says, and Ryouta wonders if she means it or is just saying so. “Oh, I mean it,” Satsuki grins. “Dai-chan tells me you saved his life.”

For a moment, Ryouta thinks about telling her he didn’t – it seems boastful to say he did – but then he decides against it. It is pointless to lie around Satsuki; her talents go deeper than just gathering intel. Although, in a sense, her abilities make gathering intel all that much easier.

“Good job, Ryou-chan; keep it up, won’t you?”

She gives Ryouta a parting wave, before disappearing into her own office.

***

_end part two._


	3. Dead Men Tell No Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Akashi grins, suddenly: a bright, feral grin that wouldn’t look out of place on Aomine’s face. “Besides,” he says, “you can think of this as being on a paid vacation, with your boss.”]
> 
> In which Kise really should've known better. (Than to believe Akashi, that is.)

 

**Part III: Dead Men Tell No Tales**

When Ryouta thinks of France, he thinks of the summer sun in Marseilles, the pristine beaches of the Cote d’Azur, the vibrant nighttime streets in Paris. He does not think of Grenoble in the dead of winter, and subzero temperatures.

“Oh, stop whining, Ryouta,” Akashi snaps at him as they are leaving the airport, though Ryouta had, at most, voiced his lack of enthusiasm twice, “we’re in the heart of the French Alps; it isn’t like you’ll die of boredom.”

He pushes his briefcase into Ryouta’s chest, and though he is looking _up_ at Ryouta, Ryouta can’t help but feel very, very small. Since high school, Akashi has grown some, attaining a respectable adult height of five feet, eleven inches, but he is still shorter than Ryouta, who is over six feet tall. The fact that he is, even now, on the wrong end of their height difference does not seem to daunt Akashi, but then, it wouldn’t. He has spent much of his life making up for his lack of inches with sheer force of personality.

Akashi grins, suddenly: a bright, feral grin that wouldn’t look out of place on Aomine’s face. “Besides,” he says, “you can think of this as being on a paid vacation, with your boss.” He pushes insistently on the briefcase; Ryouta, sighing, takes that as his cue to take it from him.

Akashi is here for a business meeting. His father’s company – soon to be his, if the rumors of the Akashi patriarch’s impending retirement are true – is negotiating some sort of deal with STMicroelectronics – ST for short, a French-Italian electronics manufacturer. Ryouta does not care for – and is not privy to – the details, but he is aware that the project is one of the Akashi family’s few legal ventures. ST’s headquarters are situated in Geneva, Switzerland, but Grenoble is home to one of their leading manufacture plants, and also where the head engineer – or someone like that – will be for the next two weeks. From what Ryouta can see, ST is eager to do business with the Akashi conglomerate.  The company has arranged the entire trip, from the Business-class airline tickets – Lufthansa; with a stopover in Berlin – to the executive limo that is waiting for them outside the airport. The window glass is bulletproof, Ryouta notes, as he slides into the car after Akashi.

Even here, outside his immediate sphere of influence, Akashi is a Very Important Person. Meanwhile, Ryouta is a lackey, sent along because Akashi’s father does not think Akashi would use the opportunities to unwind – i.e. winter sports – provided, otherwise. In Ryouta terms, he’s supposed to make sure Akashi 1) eats his meals on time 2) sleeps adequately and 3) exercises. An absolutely ridiculous assignment, considering Akashi outgrew nannies at the age of six months.

It is mid-January, the peak of the ski season, and ST seems intent on making sure Akashi receives the best of it, having booked rooms for him – and Ryouta – at one of the many resorts surrounding Grenoble. There seems to be no end to the lift lines crisscrossing the mountain sides, cable cars winding along their length.

When they arrive at their (VIP) suite, it is ten o’clock in the morning. Akashi immediately disappears into his bedroom, presumably to sleep off the edge of his tiredness; unlike Ryouta, Akashi hates flying and has never been able to fall asleep on planes.

Ryouta sits on the lattice-styled couch in the suite’s sitting room, sorting through their gear. His snowboard – Ryouta skis, too, but he thinks there is a certain thrill associated with boarding skis can’t quite live up to – is a freestyler, black with yellow trimmings. The yellow glows in the dark. Ryouta will never admit it out loud, but that feature – the glow-in-the-dark trimmings – had been the main incentive behind the purchase. He’s recently had the bindings tightened; the back one, especially, had been coming loose. He double-checks the battery in his (night-vision) goggles, fishes his boots from the jumble of things inside his duffel.

His stuff accounted for, Ryouta decides to be a good underling and look over Akashi’s equipment, too. To his surprise, instead of the skis he’d been expecting Akashi to bring, he unearths another snowboard. It is a good board, Ryouta thinks, pretty, in a very-Akashi sort of way, mostly red, and is obviously very well kept – it’s been waxed, recently, and the foot bindings look brand new.

Well, Ryouta thinks, sitting back on his heels. This is a bit of a surprise. He knows Akashi _can_ board; he’d just assumed that, since he was better at skiing, he’d rather do that. He’s never thought of Akashi as much of a thrill-seeker; on the contrary, Ryouta has always been under the impression Akashi’s strict training regimens have less to do with enjoyment and more to do with an active sense of self-preservation. He taps a finger against the board’s fiberglass surface. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

Akashi’s meeting is in the late afternoon. By the time it rolls around, he has showered, dressed, and looks much less cranky than he had before. Ryouta, who’d fallen asleep on the couch, is awoken by the sound of the front door unlocking; he sits up, unsticking his eyes, pushing the heels of his hands into his sockets.

“Time already?” he asks, throat scratchy.

Akashi, standing by the door, suit jacket over one arm, says, “You don’t have to come,” evidently taking pity on him. Ryouta can hear the patronizing disbelief in the tone of his voice, as if Akashi is saying, _and why are you so tired, exactly_? It might have stung, five years ago, but now, Ryouta knows it’s just how Akashi shows care – by acting as though he doesn’t care at all.

“Mm, okay,” Ryouta says, and drops his head back down, against the sofa’s armrest.

The door opens with a quiet _snick_. Ryouta hears Akashi mutter, “you could at least pretend to make an effort,” as he leaves, briefcase in hand. Ryouta would feel bad, but he’s got a throbbing headache, and he wants – needs – a shower; if Akashi _had_ to have him come, Ryouta would’ve made him wait. There are certain things that cannot be compromised.

Ryouta lies sprawled on the couch, for several moments longer, before deciding it’s time he got up. He takes a fresh pair of jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt out of his suitcase and heads to the bathroom.

Several hours later, Akashi returns from his meeting in a terrifyingly good mood. Ryouta watches him shrug out of his suit jacket and iron a more casual turtleneck while _humming under his breath_. He’d declined Ryouta’s offer to iron the shirt for him. Ryouta wonders if the world is coming to an end.

“So,” Ryouta says carefully, looking up from his portable game console, “I guess the meeting went well?”

Akashi shoots him a bright smile, frighteningly reminiscent of his high school days, when most of the people who knew him were convinced he was bipolar, and not without reason. “Oh, that’s an _understatement_ ,” he says, almost gleefully, “I dare my father to find issue with _this_ deal.” He loosens his tie, flinging it almost carelessly across the ironing table, and pulls the iron’s plug out of its socket. He looks at Ryouta, considering, shirt half-unbuttoned, his change of clothing draped across one shoulder. “You know,” he says, “I’m _starving_. What do you say to grabbing some dinner, and then we’ll go hit the slopes?”

His bedroom door clicks shut behind him. Ryouta stares. Maybe the world came to an end while he’d been taking a nap, and this is the aftermath. It’s certainly scary enough.

The resort’s dining room is set out like a school cafeteria: long tables with benches on either side, set parallel to each other. Usually, Akashi would turn his nose up at the arrangement, and ask for something less public, but he is still riding the high from his _very successful_ meeting, and barely bats an eye, sitting down at one of the less crowded tables without complaint.

The food is served buffet-style, and is very French: _cassoulet_ , _pissaladière_ , the _ratatouille_ that inspired a Disney-Pixar movie. The background music – Piaf, the hum of the crowd, and the smell of the food make for a powerful combination. Ryouta finds himself with a hearty bowl of _cassoulet_ (with a salad on the side to assuage his guilt), and more _gougères_ than he knows what to do with.

Akashi, who, even while possibly unhinged, is more sensible than Ryouta will ever be, is sipping on _pot-au-fet_ , and his bowl looks like all the vegetables in the soup have somehow made their way into it.

“You’re going to make yourself sick, Ryouta,” Akashi observes, with a pointedly raised red eyebrow.

“Whatever, Akashicchi,” Ryouta shrugs, and offers him one of his _gougères._ “Cheese puff?”

Akashi shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

He’s got a glass of wine – red – by his side. Ryouta notices he’s on his third glass of the night, and wonders if it would be advisable to dissuade him from trying to snowboard, afterwards. Ryouta sticks to mineral water. Akashi might have the luxury of getting drunk, but Ryouta does not, because – for lack of a better phrase – he’s on duty.

They are seated at the last table in the dining hall, by the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the mountainside. The edge of the mountain falls away, a sharp precipice, as if cut out by a knife. Across the hall, Ryouta catches sight of another Japanese tourist. He wouldn’t have noticed him, if the man hadn’t been staring so intently in their direction. He is sitting two tables away, has a close-shaven head, and – Ryouta can just make out a curling shape against his throat. Catching Ryouta’s eye, he nods, and turns back to his tray, pulling up the neck of his shirt.

“What are you looking at, Ryouta?” Akashi asks. He is facing the windows, his back to the rest of the hall, and is looking at Ryouta’s expression, a puzzled look on his own face.

Ryouta blinks, reverie broken. “Oh, nothing,” he says, smiling, “just thought I saw someone I know.”

“Well, do you want to go find out?” Akashi drains his glass.

 A passing waiter stops by Akashi’s seat and offers him a refill in heavily accented English. It is a very interesting accent, Ryouta thinks, offhand, sibilant, with the ‘r’s appropriately rolled and the vowels pronounced. He almost sounds like an actor playing a Frenchman. Akashi, to Ryouta’s increasing dismay, accepts the refill.

“Akashicchi,” Ryouta says, “should you really be drinking so much?”

Akashi frowns at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ryouta,” he says, and he sounds completely lucid, “I know my own limits.”

Ryouta sighs. Not so long ago, he was considered the least responsible – and most immature – member of his group of friends? coworkers? – and here he is, suddenly a – if not the – voice of reason. Resolutely, he eats a cheese puff.

As Ryouta is throwing the napkins, plastic covers, and other miscellaneous items of trash off their trays, an elbow collides with his back. Ryouta almost drops his tray, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

“Sorry,” the person who’d bumped into him mutters, voice gruff, and Ryouta looks around to find the offender is the Japanese tourist he’d seen staring, earlier. With another unnerving nod, the man walks off. Ryouta stares at the thin, curling line along his neck, frowning.

The ride to the top of the piste is quiet. There are very few people still outside. Ryouta is surprised more people aren’t out to take advantage of the near-empty slopes – not that he minds. Night boarding wouldn’t be night boarding with too many other people; that would defeat the purpose of it.

Ryouta has always loved being out at night. There is something about the stillness, the heavy embrace of the quiet – it clears his mind, anticipation speeding up his heartbeat.

Here, balanced over three thousand meters above sea level, Ryouta feels as though he is standing at the top of the world. He can just make out the resort buildings, half-hidden in what looks like, from up here, a shallow pocket in the mountainside. The trail winds downward, disappearing out of sight. Ryouta breathes in, taking in the forest creeping alongside the trail, the dips and swells – where the rocky terrain breaches the snow-cover – forming natural jibs down the length of the slope.

Fifteen meters down, he can see Akashi, expertly weaving his way down the mountain, right foot in front, left in the back. Goofy footed. It’s almost expected, at this point: trust Akashi to do everything the _other_ way around.

“I’m just giving you a handicap, Akashicchi!” Ryouta calls after him, cupping his hands around his mouth.

As if flipping him the (metaphorical) finger, Akashi catches air, temporarily suspended above ground. He lands the way he does everything else: perfectly, knees bent, arms thrown wide for balance. Ryouta shakes his head, smiles a little. When, he thinks, would Akashi have found time to learn so well? He snaps his goggles into place, tinting the world green, details surfacing in front of his eyes: the snow, grainy where it is stretched thin, the minute shifts in the surface of the ground –

He rides parallel to the mountain’s fall line, picking up speed. The distance between him and Akashi’s back narrows: twenty-five meters, twenty, fifteen. Ryouta grins in anticipation, crouched low, pitching his weight forward. Akashi might be better than Ryouta had expected him to be – but the truth of the matter is, Ryouta has been doing this longer.

Five meters, and Ryouta is close enough to feel the wind whistling around Akashi, and hear the smooth hiss as the edge of his board carves through the snow –

There is a mound coming up ahead: a swell of what looks like fresh-turned snow, as though someone had purposefully packed it together, in an attempt to build something, perhaps, or to hide something underneath – Ryouta blinks, coming to a sudden, horrifying, conclusion.

“Akashicchi! Watch _out_ ,” and, Akashi slows, instinctively, stumbling backward, losing his sense of balance; Ryouta, dropping low, breaks Akashi’s fall, momentum sending them tumbling downward. As they come to a stop, fall broken by a rocky outcrop, Akashi’s head snaps backward, hitting Ryouta in the chin.

“Ow, Akashicchi,” Ryouta mumbles, as he gets to his feet, awkwardly, still strapped onto his snowboard. He does a quick 360°, scanning their immediate vicinity, freeing himself from the snowboard’s foot bindings.

“What,” Akashi says, attempting to get to his feet, “do you think you’re doing, Ryouta?” He wavers, still out of balance. Ryouta steadies him, a cautious hand on his arm.

“Akashicchi,” he says, carefully, looking Akashi in the eye, “are you keeping an eye on _future watch_?”

For a moment, Akashi stares back at him – and then his eyes widen, minutely, mouth twisting around a silent curse.

On cue, a loud crack splits the air. The bullet whistles past Ryouta’s ear, missing him by a hair. Ryouta can see the gunman standing by the mound of snow, less than ten meters away, not bothering with concealment. He doesn’t need to – being on the upper ground, both literally and figuratively.

The one bright side, Ryouta notes, is that there is only one of him.

“Akashicchi,” Ryouta says, “I need you to stay down and not move, okay? You can fire me for insubordination later.” 

Bravado aside, Ryouta thinks, narrowly avoiding another bullet, he – and by extension Akashi, too – is a sitting duck: no weapons, no ideas, and barely any cover. They’re out of range, for now, but not because the enemy is unaware of their position.

Ryouta squints at the gunman. He looks familiar, Ryouta thinks, eyebrows creasing – oh.

“You can’t hide forever,” the gunman calls, and Ryouta recognizes the brusque, thick voice muttering an apology in the dining hall.  

 Oh, Ryouta thinks again, and kicks himself, mentally, for not being more vigilant. The gunman is wearing goggles and a ski-cap, but Ryouta knows that, under the cap, he is bald, and behind the collar, he has a faintly curling tattoo.

He begins to approach the outcrop, snow crunching under his boots.

“Ryouta,” Akashi hisses, “if you’re going to do something – ”

“I’m _thinking_ ,” Ryouta tells him, “haven’t you got any ideas?”

Looking at him, Ryouta sees Akashi’s face is ashen, a fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip, eyes wide. His breathing is rapid, irregular. “I can’t _see_ ,” Akashi says, so quiet Ryouta has to strain to hear him, “I can’t focus – ”

“Okay,” Ryouta says, “it’s fine; I’ll figure something out.”

He tries to think of the last time he saw Akashi look so unnerved, and finds he draws a blank. But then: Akashi is so used to being in control finding himself in a situation orchestrated by someone else must be more than a little unsettling.

Ryouta scans the ground again, from the ridge to the artificial snow mound, at the gunman’s lazy approach, and an idea sparks in his mind. He shifts, trying to concentrate. He’s not sure this will work; it’s a fairly new skill, one he’s only ever used non-combative situations.

 _“Remember,”_ Kiyoshi had said, standing over him in the dojo, arms crossed, _“you can use the energy in your surroundings through its connection to you.”_

Ryouta sets his palm flat on the ground. He focuses his attention on the rocky outcrop, feeling for it where it disappears under snow, perpendicular to the mountain’s fall line.

_“Everything is connected, and it’s like the domino effect: all you have to do is disturb the balance in a single piece – ”_

Experimentally, Ryouta visualizes the ground shaking.

Above them, the gunman missteps.

“-the hell,” Ryouta hears him mutter, and, with renewed determination, Ryouta centers his attention on the rock. This time, the tremor reverberates audibly. Sweat beads on Ryouta’s forehead, dripping into his eyes. He blinks it away.

A fissure appears just before the gunman’s feet, the crack widening. He jumps back, staggers, and falls to his hands and knees, the gun slipping out of his hand, sliding downhill. Behind him, the mound of snow explodes in a blaze of heat, raining a cloud of dust, melted sludge and shrapnel.

Ryouta gets to his feet as the dust clears, stiff at the joints. He walks over to the gun, picking it up off the ground, and checks the magazine. Two bullets left. Ryouta looks at the gunman, lying face-up on the snow, and immediately looks away.

“I guess I won’t need to use this,” Ryouta says, turning to look at Akashi – and freezes.

There is another man standing behind Akashi, arm wrapped around Akashi’s throat, a handgun pressed to Akashi’s forehead.

“Drop your weapon,” the man says, in accented English, “or I shoot him.”

“Ah, another familiar face,” Ryouta says, lowering his gun, “my friend the waiter. I know you can speak Japanese, by the way. You can drop the Frenchman act; your accent’s atrocious.”

The waiter-turned-criminal gives Ryouta a menacing look. “Are you really in a position to make wisecracks?”

Ryouta shrugs. “You tell me,” he says. “Now, seeing as we’re asking playing the question game: what was in that alcohol you were serving?”

Ryouta does not receive a reply, because the waiter is unable to give one; he is abruptly bent in half, clutching his stomach, eyes bulging. Ryouta smiles, briefly. Elbow to the stomach, he thinks. Typical Akashi, to bluff someone into lowering their guard.  Akashi steps out of reach, a look of absolute fury on his face.

“Ryouta,” he says, icily, “the weapon, please.”

“You sure, Akashicchi?” Ryouta can’t help but ask. “You seemed pretty out of it back there – ”

Akashi gives Ryouta a look. Ryouta shuts up and throws it to him. Akashi catches it out of the air, training it on the man’s face.  He looks up, gasping, but no sound comes out of his mouth.

“Oh, don’t bother,” Akashi says, pleasantly, “where you’re going you won’t have to talk at all.”

The bullet catches the man in between the eyes. Akashi drops the gun onto the ground. He wipes his fingers on his jacket, eyes finding Ryouta’s. Ryouta winces.

Around them, it begins to snow, snowflakes coming to rest on their ski-caps and shoulders.

“So,” Ryouta begins, “um, about that insubordination – ”

“Thank you, Ryouta,” Akashi says, before swaying in place, his knees buckling.

Ryouta catches him before he can hit the ground.

***

_end part three._


	4. Man Proposes, God Disposes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“Well,” (Midorima) says, softly, “I guess it’s time for a little luck.” ]
> 
> In which Midorima is Midorima, alternate universes be damned, and Kise is no longer a _bishounen_.

 

**Part IV: Man Proposes, God Disposes**

“You’ll probably be interested to know,” Satsuki tells him, from where she is sitting, atop her desk, “that Sei-kun actually fractured his arm in that fall.”

“Really? He never let on,” Ryouta says.

Satsuki nods, idly swinging one sneakered foot back and forth. “That’s Sei-kun for you,” she says. “He won’t say it, but he’s really very grateful for what you did up there. I know he doesn’t act like he is, but don’t think he doesn’t appreciate you, hmm?”

“I wouldn’t think that,” Ryouta tells her, “I’ve known Akashicchi about as long as you have, Momocchi.”

Satsuki taps her head. “Then, what’s that dissent I hear up there?” She grins, in response to Ryouta’s puzzled look. “You know, some thoughts are conscious, and others are unconscious; feelings and ideas you have despite knowing better. I can hear both.”

“Right,” Ryouta says, suddenly uncomfortable.

Satsuki laughs gaily, teeth flashing bright. “Don’t worry, Ryou-chan; your secrets are safe with me."

“I should hope so.” Ryouta resists the urge to fidget nervously.

“About your second question,” Satsuki says, seriously, “you’re right; they were yakuza. Tiger Triad agents, in fact. Sei-kun has an unfortunate tendency to upset the wrong people, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I’m not sure that’s always entirely his fault,” Ryouta muses.

Satsuki’s eyes sparkle. “Well, you’re right about that.” She smiles. “Okay – you’re free to go. Debriefing over, and boy _was_ it brief. Go home and get some rest, okay, Ryou-chan? I’ll be in touch.”

Ryouta stands up, picking his jacket off her couch and swinging it over his shoulders. At the door, he turns around and says, “thanks, Momocchi.”

Satsuki looks up, tucking her hair behind her ear, already miles away, focusing on her next task. “Sure, Ryou-chan,” she says, “anytime.”

***

Akashi’s men – that is how Ryouta refers to them in his head – each have their own special talent. Akashi calls them _Miracle Holders_ ; Ryouta isn’t sure if that is the official term for people like them, or just something Akashi made up that year they were high school freshmen and Akashi called them his _Kiseki no Sedai_ – his _Generation of Miracles_. It doesn’t matter, either way; Ryouta likes the sound of it – _Miracle Holder_ – and wouldn’t want to be called anything else, really.

Akashi is a diviner. The strength and accuracy of his predictions vary greatly, depending on the people and events involved – as well as Akashi’s own state of mind. The way Akashi explains it, _future watch_ is a sixth sense, and, like all senses, is dependent on his body’s physiological processes. A certain level of wariness enhances it, outright panic dulls it– and Ryouta is sure Akashi can’t see more than fifteen to twenty minutes ahead at a time, and even then, only if he is looking. Weaknesses aside – everybody has those – _future watch_ is a valuable skill, which, combined with Akashi’s natural flair for turning people into his own personal (albeit precious) chess pieces, have shaped him into the respected (read: feared) president-to-be he is.

Aomine is a beast – no pun intended. He calls his Miracle _panther mimicry_ – a state of heightened reflexes and magnified natural ability. With _panther mimicry_ activated, Aomine is faster, stronger, more agile. According to Satsuki, he can actually transform – fully – into a panther, though Ryouta has never seen him do it. In addition to his position as Akashi’s outlandish house-pet, Aomine is an Inspector in the Tokyo Special Assault Team, and therefore in the perfect position to provide intel on Akashi’s business competition. As far as Ryouta knows, Aomine’s activities as a law enforcer and yakuza haven’t actually come into conflict, yet, mostly because it is a well-known fact that it is in the general interests of the law enforcement to clash with the yakuza as little as possible.

Murasakibara is the Japanese Hulk. Ryouta doesn’t know if it is a natural aptitude or something acquired through, say, experimentation, comic book style. Very little is known about Murasakibara’s talents, and most of what is known is known only to Akashi, and, by extension, Satsuki, who can read minds. All Ryouta knows is that it is easy to make Murasakibara angry, and that it is never a good idea to be around Murasakibara when he _is_ angry.

 After all, the Shibuya Incident occurred a little less than a year ago.

Ryouta is a copycat. Satsuki has dubbed his Miracle _perfect copy_ , because it is just that. Ryouta can mimic appearance, voices, and even other Miracles, but only if he knows how they work. It takes a certain level of practice to imitate a new ability, but once perfected, it is almost impossible to tell Ryouta’s from the real thing. So far, he’s acquired terrakinesis, learned from Kiyoshi Teppei, a friend of Satsuki’s friend Riko. It came in useful during his assignment with Akashi in the French Alps, the month before, and Ryouta finds there is something comforting about having a ready weapon, anytime and anywhere. Currently, Ryouta is working on reading minds, under Satsuki’s tutelage, and has his heart set on obtaining Aomine’s _panther mimicry_ , if only because it would be fun to turn into a panther. Animal transformations can be tricky, however, so Ryouta intends to take his time.

As for Midorima – Midorima is lucky. Ryouta still isn’t sure what exactly his Miracle is, just that, when Midorima shoots, he never misses – his accuracy is inhuman – and when Midorima tosses a coin, it always comes up his way, even when the coin is weighted, or someone else is doing the tossing. Midorima is, for lack of a better phrase, completely weird. He is a doctor, and specializes in traumatic injuries. Word on the street is, he’d picked it because Akashi had suggested it, and Akashi’s suggestions are actually mandates masquerading as suggestions. Midorima works strange hours, keeps stranger company (by which Ryouta means himself and the other Miracle Holders) and always has the strangest things in his pockets. Lucky items, Satsuki says, collected diligently through guidance from Oha Asa, Midorima’s favorite horoscope radio show. Completely weird, Ryouta reiterates, to himself.

Today’s lucky item is a five-inch high collector’s figurine of Tabuse Yuta. Ryouta knows this because he accompanied Midorima to three different stores in search of it earlier in the day.

The thing that niggles at him most is: all the Miracle Holders’ abilities are potentially imitable, apart from Murasakibara’s, which would probably involve injecting himself with chemical serum, and Midorima’s, because, well, _how do you copy luck_? He’d posed the question to Midorima, once, who’d smiled an impregnable smile, and Ryouta had promptly forgotten what he’d asked, because Midorima’s smiles are even rarer than Akashi’s.

It is now almost midnight. The casino throbs with noise, the sound of the crowd and the beat of the music playing from the overhead speakers reverberating in Ryouta’s ears. Ryouta is tired, and he has a headache. He wants to go home and sleep, but Midorima is on a winning streak. He is currently standing to win a hundred million yen, and tensions are running high around the table.

Sometimes, when Akashi wants fast cash – liquefying stocks quickly isn’t always easy – he sends Midorima on one of these jaunts. Most times, he’ll accompany Midorima himself: _future watch_ paired with Midorima’s luck is a formidable combination – but Akashi is in Kyoto for the weekend, with his father, and so it has fallen on Ryouta to be Midorima’s partner. It isn’t the most unpleasant job in the world – he’s had worse – in fact, if it weren’t for his early morning and the horrible music choices, Ryouta might have enjoyed himself.

Instead, he is fighting to keep his eyes open.

Midorima puts down his hand. “I believe this round is over,” he says. There is no victory in his voice; his tone and expression are completely impassive. Ryouta can see his attitude – or lack of it – has pissed off more than a few of the people around him. Usually, it wouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact that Midorima’s opponent is Kato Eiji, son of Kato Daisuke, the man who owns ten percent of Kabukochi’s businesses and isn’t afraid to remind people of so.

Across the table, Kato’s face twists, unpleasantly. His companion, a silver-haired gentleman dressed in _hakama_ – like a samurai – puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“It would seem we have lost,” he urges Kato, “knowing when to accept defeat is one of the most useful skills you will learn.”

The words are lost on Kato, who gestures for the attendant to deal another round. He raises his cup, giving Midorima a beetle-eyed glare. “I will win against you yet,” he says, smiling unpleasantly, and Midorima sighs.

“Well, alright, then,” and the game begins again.

Ryouta slumps in his chair.

Midorima seems to sense his discomfort, and is probably beginning to feel rather uncomfortable himself, because this round progresses faster than the others had. Midorima plays confidently, almost carelessly, as if it doesn’t matter to him who wins or loses.

Of course, this infuriates Kato more, and he makes mistakes: a wrong call, a card put down too soon. The game is over almost before it begins.

Midorima stands, a little stiffly, after sitting so long. He nods his head in Kato – and his companion’s – direction. “Thank you,” he says, politely, “for your time.”

The total, Ryouta notices with some awe, comes up to one-hundred-and-fifty million yen.

In the discotheque-like lighting, Kato’s face purples. “We’re not done,” he states, “you cheated,” and he stands up, too, as if to prove himself on equal ground. It is a vain gesture; Midorima towers over him by a head-and-a-half.

Midorima examines his suit-jacket, picking off an imaginary piece of lint. “That is a heavy accusation, Kato-kun,” he says mildly.

Ryouta wants to tell him to stop antagonizing Kato – was using _–kun_ really necessary? Instead, he stands up, too, positioning himself at Midorima’s shoulder. He can feel the tension rolling off Midorima; obviously, he is not as relaxed as he appears.

“You did,” Kato insists, ignoring his attendant’s placating hand. “You did – I know who you are, you work for Akashi Seijuurou – you’re both _notorious cheaters_ I bet you rigged the machine, didn’t you?”

“I don’t see how I could do that,” Midorima says, still quiet, “seeing as your father owns this establishment.”

“Exactly!” Kato seizes his opportunity. “Which is why _I_ should’ve been the one to win! You cost me one-hundred-fifty million yen!”

Midorima’s expression stills, mouth settling into a line, shrewd green eyes fixed on Kato’s angry red-orange ones. He is quiet so long Ryouta thinks he isn’t going to reply: and then he says,

“That is why children should not be gambling.” He turns away. “Come on, Kise. Let’s get out of here.”

Before he follows, Ryouta glances back at the table, on a whim. Later, he will say that impulse is what saved his – and Midorima’s – life. As Midorima turned to leave, Kato signaled one of the various bodyguards he had stationed around the table. The bodyguard drew a gun: a Beretta 93 R _affica_ , a fully automatic pistol with a firing rate of 1100 rounds per minute independent of its wielder’s speed of fire –

Instinctively, Ryouta seizes Midorima’s arms, propelling him out of the line of fire, pushing him to the ground. He keeps moving, even as he ducks, pulling them both around and behind one of the casino’s many wooden pillars. The loud _crack_ echoes throughout the room, barely registering in Ryouta’s mind, and a burst of bullets erupts from the gun’s barrel, moving so fast Ryouta cannot follow them with his eyes. There is a high pitched whistle as one flies past them, lodging itself into the wooden pillar. A crash and the tinkle of broken glass as a window is pierced through, and a cry of pain and a clatter as a waiter drops his tray, clutching his arm.

A patron screams.

Dimly, Ryouta grasps the sharp stinging sensation and wet warmth spreading along his suit jacket. Had the bullet found its intended target, it would have traveled through Midorima’s back, into his heart. As it turned out, it had found Ryouta’s side. Shit, Ryouta thinks, I should start wearing Kevlar.

There is more screaming now, as Kato’s bodyguard scans the room, gun hand outstretched.

Jaw clenched, Midorima gets to his feet. Ryouta attempts to join him, but Midorima shakes his head, his eyes tight and blazing. He has retrieved his own handguns: 9mm semi-automatic Browning HPs. Custom-made, of course; Midorima wouldn't settle for any less. The Browning isn’t a flashy pistol by any means, but it is reliable, very much like Midorima himself. As he aims and fires, taking out the guard who’d shot at him, Ryouta is reminded of what he’d been thinking earlier: Midorima _never_ misses. He’d heard it, from Satsuki and Aomine and even Akashi himself, but this was his first time seeing Midorima shoot at something other than a stationary target.

Midorima shoots like he plays poker: expressionlessly, with brutal efficiency. Ryouta notices he isn’t shooting to kill, but to incapacitate – but he is ruthless about it – avoiding fatal hits but only barely. He is walking a thin line – utterly effortlessly.

Seven bullets later, Kato’s men are reduced to limp, cowering mounds in various states of pain and distress. Kato himself is has gone pale, the blood having drained from his face, staring at Midorima with comically wide eyes.

“That – that isn’t all,” he says, finally, chin trembling. “I’ve – I’ve got _reinforcements_ they’re right here –”

Almost immediately, two more men enter the room  from the double doors in the back, which lead to the kitchen, with the promise of more. The casino is enormous – who’s to say how many people Kato has in here?

Midorima looks down at Ryouta, meeting his eyes. A brief emotion flickers through Midorima’s and disappears just as quickly; if Ryouta had to guess, he’d say it was worry. He looks around at the casino, at the guests huddled at their tables, and the three more men coming down the stairs, and seems to come to a decision.

He reaches into his pocket, and retrieves the Tabuse Yuta figurine he’d been so particular about obtaining. “Well,” he says, softly, “I guess it’s time for a little luck.” He twists the figure’s head, 360 degrees, all the way around, and tosses it in the general direction of Kato and the people regrouping around him.

The figure falls, as if in slow-motion, in a lazy cartwheel – and explodes.

Smoke fills the inside of the casino. Through the cacophony of screaming and the burning in his lungs, Ryouta becomes aware of Midorima stooping to pull him to his feet. An arm secures Ryouta’s waist; his own arm is thrown over a (ridiculously bony) shoulder, and Ryouta is almost bodily carried outside.

“What was that?” Ryouta mumbles as he is bundled into the car, Midorima wrapping a makeshift bandage around his torso to _apply pressure_ and _stop the bleeding_.

“Smoke bomb,” Midorima says, shortly, “containing a chemical similar to that found in tear gas, in use by riot police worldwide.”

Ryouta thinks back to the morning, and the shopkeeper who’d finally sold them the figurine: a slight, dark-haired man in his early thirties, unremarkable save for the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and his wicked grin. Midorima seemed to have known him, Ryouta recalls; they’d shared barbed pleasantries over the counter. What had Midorima called him? Ah – Imayoshi. Satsuki has a file on him; Ryouta’s seen it in her cabinet.

 Briefly, Midorima meets Ryouta’s eyes. “Don’t worry; it wasn’t – isn’t – my intention to kill anyone.”

Ryouta smiles, wry. “Not even me, Midorimacchi?” It is, he realizes, a serious question disguised as a joke – not one he’d intended to ask, but one he had, nonetheless. Despite being acquainted with Midorima for over a decade, Ryouta can count the number of times – on his hands – he’s held a conversation with him independent of others. Among his fellow Miracle Holders, Aomine and Satsuki were – are – his best friends. The rest, he had vaguely considered teammates, but not to that very special degree of _nakama_ – people he’d give his life for. At least, not consciously.

Now, under Midorima’s canny, discerning gaze – perhaps he is his own type of mind-reader – Ryouta comes to the conclusion that maybe he’d considered them all _nakama_ all along, despite – or perhaps _because of_ – how much they needled him, and got under his skin –

“No,” Midorima says softly, “not even you.”

In the hospital, Midorima replaces the bandages, cleaning out the wound and applying a topical antibiotic. Ryouta sits on the hospital bed, legs dangling off the side, braced on his arms.

“It isn’t deep enough to require stiches,” Midorima says, “but I can’t promise you won’t have a scar.”

Ryouta shrugs. “I don’t mind scars,” he says, “they give a person character.”

Besides: it isn’t Ryouta’s first scar, and it sure as hell won’t be the last. If he’d ever wanted to return to being a model, that dream has been well and truly dashed. Unless, of course, _rugged_ instead of _bishonen_ comes into style.

He gives Midorima a heavy-lidded grin. “Besides, it’s gonna be that constant reminder of how I saved your life.”

If he had hoped to make Midorima uncomfortable, he fails, miserably. Midorima doesn’t even blink, merely sweeping the used bandages and paper wrap into the trash can. Ryouta is half-afraid Midorima will try to throw him away, too. It turns out to be an unfounded fear; instead, Midorima makes his way over to his desk and sits down, pulling out a prescription pad and his pen.

“Do you remember,” Midorima says, while he is writing out pain medication – his handwriting is nothing like most doctors’; it is neat and meticulous, “when you asked me if a person could copy luck?”

Ryouta coughs. “Can you read minds, too, Midorimacchi?”

“I’m a doctor,” Midorima tells him, “it’s my job to read people – but, no, I cannot read minds in the way you mean. Consider it an extension of being human: the ability to empathize.”

Pretending he understood, Ryouta nods.

“Luck,” Midorima stops to examine a close-cropped, neatly maintained fingernail, “is in greater part a result of being prepared. Luck the way most people mean it doesn’t really exist. What happens to you is a net result of your previous actions: the hours you put into practice, the reading you do, the flexibility of your mind. That is what eighty-five percent of luck is.”

Ryouta crosses his arms across his bandage-swathed torso. “What about the other fifteen?”

Midorima smiles his infrequent, mysterious smile. “Faith,” he says, “the faith that things will work out, if not in the way you want now, the one you will want then. Because, after all, man can only propose – it is God who disposes.”

***

“I see you’ve been to call on Shintarou,” Akashi says, as if he hadn’t known, when Ryouta enters his office. He looks up from the file on his desk. His arm is out of its sling; obviously, he’s been to call on Midorima, too. Sitting on a chair by the side of the desk, Satsuki gives Ryouta a smile. She has a file identical to Akashi’s in front of her.

Ryouta shrugs, taking a seat. “I guess he felt he owed me,” he says, cheerfully.

Akashi taps the end of his pen against his desktop. “Well, alternatively, he could have let you bleed to death, so ‘I guess you’re even.’”

“Wow, Akashicchi, I’m impressed,” Ryouta leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “you do realize that’s slang, right? It doesn’t exactly fit your cultured personage, you know?”

“One day your cheek will get you into trouble,” Akashi doesn’t exactly _sniff_ but he might as well have, “and when that day comes along I’m not going to do a thing to stop it." He pauses, for a moment, and flips a page, although he couldn’t possibly have been reading it, then looks at Ryouta over the top of his spectacles. The gesture would have looked more appropriate had he been twenty years older. “You live near Yoyogi Park, don’t you, Ryouta?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryouta sees Satsuki smile and bring her hand up to hide it. When she looks up, she catches Akashi’s eye, and they exchange an implicative look. Satsuki has that sparkle in her eye: the one that means she knows something Ryouta doesn’t and is (probably) secretly laughing at his expense.

“What of it?” Ryouta feels thoroughly creeped out. A part of him – the rational part, the one that gets him out of whatever sticky situation he might be mired in – wonders just how much Akashi trusts Satsuki, and how much he would _have_ to trust her, if only to avoid going completely insane.

In a sense, Satsuki is Akashi’s most important chess piece: more important than Murasakibara, the rook, Midorima, the bishop, or Aomine, the knight – more important than Ryouta, a pawn waiting to be promoted – Satsuki – Satsuki is a queen. _The_ queen.

Akashi tilts his head. “Oh, nothing,” he says, musingly, “be careful on your way home, now.”

And with that cryptic remark, he turns back to the file on his desk.

As Ryouta is closing the door behind him, he feels it being pulled open, and Satsuki steps into the corridor.

“I’d give you a penny for your thoughts, Ryou-chan,” she says, “but I already know what you’re thinking.”

“I’d take a penny from you any day, Momocchi,” Ryouta tells her.

Satsuki smiles up at him, one hand on the doorknob. “You know,” she says, “a person’s worth as a human being – as a worker, a soldier, a leader – isn’t defined by what they _are_ but by what they have the potential to _become_. I’d like you to think about that, for me.”

Ryouta turns the words over in his head. What he has the potential to become. It’s an interesting thought. “Sure,” he says, “I can do that.”

“Good,” Satsuki nods, as if reaffirming something to herself. She regards him a moment longer, in the manner of a scientist looking upon the fruits of their labor.

“Satsuki,” Akashi calls from inside the office.

“Coming, Sei-kun,” Satsuki calls back. “Well, there’s my summons. I should go back in.” She gives Ryouta a wave and a smile over her shoulder. “See you around, Ryou-chan.”

Ryouta lifts his shoulders and lets them drop. “See you, Momocchi.”

***

_end part four._


	5. All In A Day's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“He’s not boy,” the boy says. There is a thready, hesitant quality to his voice, as if he isn’t used to talking aloud, but he ploughs on, as if determined to say what he has to say. “And he’s not it, either. His name’s Nigou,” his blue eyes harden, accusing; the boy gulps for air, “and he would never hurt me.”]
> 
> In which Kise can _never_ win, at least where blue-haired little boys are concerned. Also, emojis make an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[listen]](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqpu0-fIA7k)

 

**Part V: All In A Day’s Work**

By train, the commute from Akashi’s office to Harajuku Station is ten minutes long. The Station is a further five minute walk from Yoyogi Park, and Ryouta’s apartment complex is situated just across the road from one of the park’s many entrances.

His apartment is on the sixth floor of the second building in the complex, facing the park; in fact, his living room windows look directly over it, which makes for a very nice view, on days Ryouta’s living room is in order.

Elsewhere in Tokyo, it is a quiet Wednesday afternoon, but Yoyogi is almost never quiet, except when it is closed. That’s one of the reasons Ryouta likes living so near it; there’re always people to look at and things to do. Sometimes, when they are bored and wasted, Ryouta and Aomine like to play _who dunnit_ and make up fake criminal records for every third person to walk past Ryouta’s window.

As Ryouta passes the park, hands in his pockets, he takes note of the families: the mothers and fathers – mostly both, sometimes one, occasionally two of the latter or the former – sitting on picnic mats with wicker baskets set out in front of them, the children, running around in circles around trees or each other, the musicians, playing whatever catches their fancy, making for an interesting blend of sound that is simultaneously music and nothing like music at all, the students on field trips, barbecuing in groups, the occasional homeless person, asleep on a bench or ground or wherever they happened to nod off –

Looking around at it all, Ryouta feels a sudden pang of nostalgia. He pulls his cellphone from his pocket, and sends Aomine a message.

_To: Aominecchi, Wednesday, 4:30 PM_

_Bon aprés midi, Inspector-sama~!_ _(_ _ﾉ_ _◕_ _ヮ_ _◕_ _)_ _ﾉ_ _*:_ _・ﾟ_ _✧_ _(* >ω<)_ __  
I’m commissioning your next day off! Letting you know in advance so you can’t bail on me _(¬_¬) (¬_¬)_ __  
Food’s on me (obviously _(*^_ _◇_ _^)__ _旦_ _) but you’ll bring drinks if you want to drink ‘em_ _(^_−)_ _☆  
_ _I expect to see you! No excuses!_ _( ´_ _▽_ _` )_ _ﾉ_ _( ´_ _▽_ _` )_ _ﾉ_

His phone buzzes in his pocket two minutes later.

_From: Aominecchi, Wednesday, 4:33 PM_

_Stop using those f*cking emojis Ryou you ass trying to read your messages makes my head hurt_

Ryouta finds himself smiling at the screen as he types out a reply.

_To: Aominecchi, 4:34 PM_

_Does that mean you’re coming?!_ _(_ _ﾉ◕ヮ◕_ _)_ _ﾉ_ _*:_ _・ﾟ_ _(_ _ﾉ◕ヮ◕_ _)_ _ﾉ_ _*:_ _・ﾟ_ _(_ _ﾉ◕ヮ◕_ _)_ _ﾉ_ _*:_ _・ﾟ_ _!!_

_From: Aominecchi, 4:36 PM_

_How the hell do you text so fast you’re impossible_  
Fine it’s not like I have a choice  
Do I?

_To: Aominecchi, 4:36 PM_

_I’m magic_ _(^_−)_ _☆_ _(^_−)_ _☆_ _!  
Also: no._

As he is stowing his phone back into his pocket, Ryouta sees a large black-and-white dog gallop – there’s really no other word for it – across the green. It looks like an Akita; it’s got the pointed muzzle, thick fur and curled tail of a spitz. It’s chasing a child, a slight, powder-blue haired boy who looks to be about eight or nine years old. The boy is running full-tilt, making a muffled, quiet sound that sounds half-scared and half-ecstatic but must be wholly hysterical, unnoticed by the other occupants in the park. Nobody notices their neighbors in Yoyogi Park; it is far less troublesome to ignore them.

The dog, bounding after him in graceful, easy strides, catches up quickly, paws slamming into the boy’s shoulders. The boy falls in a flurry of spindly limbs and muted shrieks, the dog pinning him to the ground. By the time Ryouta reaches them, the boy has gone eerily quiet, possibly because he no longer has the energy to cry out, a forlorn stick figure trapped underneath the dog’s weight.

“Hey, dog, hey,” Ryouta says, as he nears. He is surprised to see a red collar around the dog’s neck. “Hey,” he repeats, making his voice as soft and panic-free as he can, sliding his fingers about the collar, “c’mon, get off now, there’s a good boy – ”

The dog growls, hackles raised, displaying two rows of sharp white teeth. Ryouta, refusing to be intimidated, pulls harder. “C’mon, boy,” he says, “time to stop – ”

A pair of small brown hands curl into the dog’s fur. The boy’s face – dirt streaked, sun-browned – appears around the side of the dog’s massive legs. Ryouta is struck by how blank the little boy’s face is, dominated by a pair of electric-blue eyes, made even more startling by how expressionless they are.

“ _You_ stop,” he says, voice unsteady, “we’re just playing.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Up, Nigou,” he pushes his palms into the dog’s chest, and it obligingly gets up, padding backward. It bares its teeth in Ryouta’s direction.

The boy scrambles upwards, now, eyes fixed on Ryouta’s face. He stands by the dog, positioning himself on the side away from Ryouta, and leans into the dog, a thin arm wrapped around the its thick neck. Standing side-by-side, they are about the same height – in fact, the dog might actually have a centimeter or two on the boy.

“He’s not _boy_ ,” the boy says. There is a thready, hesitant quality to his voice, as if he isn’t used to talking aloud, but he ploughs on, as if determined to say what he has to say. “And he’s not _it_ , either. His name’s Nigou,” his blue eyes harden, accusing; the boy gulps for air, “and he would _never_ hurt me.”

 “Whoa,” Ryouta says, hurt despite himself. He holds up his hands, placating, “look, I’m sorry; I was just trying to help you, kid – ”

The boy says, “My name’s not kid,” cutting Ryouta off, sounding far more glacial than any kid has a right to sound, “it’s Kuroko Tetsuya, but _you_ can’t call me that. You can’t call me anything at all, because you’re a horrible person.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Ryouta squats, so he and the boy are on the same level. “It’s not _horrible_ _person_ ,” he says, “I’ve got a name, too, you know. I’m Kise Ryouta.”

Kuroko looks at him, deeply suspicious. Ryouta can’t help but notice how _thin_ he is – the hollows under his cheekbones, the pronounced clavicles, the protuberant wrists, protruding past jacket sleeves several inches too short. His breath mists in the cold air.

“I don’t care,” is Kuroko’s answer, delivered with the sort of conviction only children can achieve.

“Okay,” Ryouta tells him, and reaches into his pocket for his wallet and the Hershey’s chocolate bar he’d taken from his fridge earlier in the morning and forgotten to eat. “Say,” he holds out the chocolate bar and a thousand-yen note, careful not to say Kuroko’s name after being told so emphatically not to, “how about you take this, and get Nigou something to eat, hmm?” He thinks it might be a better ploy than suggesting _Kuroko_ needs to eat. Ryouta can tell the boy is fiercely proud, despite – or perhaps because of –  his age.

“Nigou can’t _eat_ chocolate,” Kuroko says, slowly, as if Ryouta is an idiot. “It’s bad for dogs. Are you an idiot?”

Mentally, Ryouta counts to ten, using the time to unwrap the bar, foil crinkling. The smell of it wafts up; Kuroko does not fail to notice. “Actually, the chocolate’s for you,” Ryouta presses, “I promise it doesn’t bite.” He breaks off a corner of it and slips it into his mouth –  a show of good faith – and holds the rest of the bar out.

Slowly, as if he is afraid Ryouta is the old witch from _Hansel and Gretel_ , Kuroko takes the proffered chocolate. Once he has it in hand, he puts several steps of distance between them, and proceeds to _devour_ the candy bar with almost dizzying speed. Ryouta finds himself wondering how long it’s been since the kid had a decent meal.

“Hey,” Ryouta says, “where’re your parents, huh? I’m sure Nigou takes great care of you, but – ”

He stops, as Kuroko’s startling eyes widen, like a deer caught in headlights. “I – I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, rapidly, the words muffled and quiet, “go away, leave me alone – come – come on Nigou – ”

And he takes another couple of steps back, gives Ryouta one last mistrustful look, and disappears. Ryouta frowns, pinches the bridge of his nose. He spends the next couple of minutes on his hands and knees, searching behind bushes and up trees, but Kuroko is nowhere to be found. It is as if he has, quite literally, vanished into thin air.

After several minutes of futile searching, Ryouta sits back on his heels, wiping the sweat from his brow. He had, at some point, gotten rid of his jacket; he goes to retrieve it now, sliding a hand into the pocket to check for his phone, which is, thankfully, still inside, the little white notification light periodically illuminating the inside of his pocket, indicating that he’s received a message. The timestamp shows that it had been sent ten minutes ago, exactly twenty minutes after he’d left the Akashi Towers.

_From: Akashicchi, 4:40 PM_

_My dearest Ryouta,  
I don’t pay you to harass children._

Ryouta stares at the text, disbelieving. He blinks, navigates out of his inbox and back again, but the message remains exactly the same. He’d read it right the first time around. Finally processing what it means, Ryouta tips his head back, and laughs, open, unreservedly. As with Kuroko and Nigou earlier, nobody looks around at him. Yoyogi is home to masterminds and madmen alike, no restrictions applied.

_To: Akashicchi, 4:52 PM_

_a)_ _That’s great, because I resign._ _(¬_¬)_

_b)_ _I didn’t know you knew how to text, Akashicchi. Weren’t cellphones invented after your time?_

_P.S. Don’t worry; I’m joking, on both points. Well, maybe not the second._

He receives Akashi’s reply when he is halfway across the street.

_From: Akashicchi, 4:57 PM_

_You cause me more heartache than Daiki.  
I suppose it’s all in a day’s work for you, Ryouta?_

Ryouta pauses at the bottom of the stairwell.

_To: Akashicchi, 4:58 PM_

_I learned from the best._ _(¬_¬)_

On the sixth floor landing, he finds Aomine sitting on the steps outside his apartment, still in uniform, forehead resting in the palm of one hand. He looks up as Ryouta approaches.

“God, Ryou, what happened to you? Did you get into a fight with a bush or something?”

“Something like that,” Ryouta unlocks his front door. “What’re you doing here?”

Aomine looks puzzled. “You said my next day off, remember? I – well.” He takes a deep breath, avoiding Ryouta’s eye. “It’s tomorrow, but you’ve never said no to an early start? I had the one shift today – ”

Ryouta grins, the smile unfurling on his face like sunrise.

“S’okay, Aominecchi; you’re welcome anytime. Come on in, yeah?” He lets Aomine into the apartment and directs him to the living room. “I’ll join you once I’ve showered and changed. Go ahead and make yourself at home.”

In his bedroom, just before he walks into the bathroom, Ryouta sends Akashi one final text, before tossing his phone onto his dresser.

_To: Akashicchi, 5:05 PM_

_You were right. All in a day’s work._

Standing under the steaming showerhead, Ryouta sets his forehead against the wall. He hadn’t waited to read it, but he can imagine the reply Akashi might send, if he sent one at all:

 

 

_Am I not always?_

***

_end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've come this far: thank you so very much for reading.


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